


Russian Roulette

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is injured - John is incapacitated. Time is against them.... How will they get out of trouble this time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the Sherlock characters

“John! What in God’s name have you done?” Lestrade could hardly believe his eyes.

John Watson, ex-army doctor, sat hunched forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, a handgun hanging loosely from his right hand and a glazed expression in his eyes. On the floor in front of him lay Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Detective, unconscious and with an ominous red stain spreading around his body. Sally Donovan was kneeling beside him, her hands firmly pressing a towel onto the wound in his side.

Exasperated at the lack of response the Detective Inspector turned to bark an order at his subordinates but was interrupted by a young red headed police constable.

“Paramedics on the way Sir”

Lestrade nodded an acknowledgement and turned back to the sandy haired man. “John! What happened man? Did the gun go off accidentally?” As he said it he knew he was grasping at straws. John Watson was a soldier who, despite his propensity towards being an adrenaline junkie, was very careful about how he handled firearms. Besides, the gun in his hand wasn’t the one the army issued to him (he really must give that in to the police) – it was a Russian MP 443 Gratch semi-automatic.

John was rocking slightly in his seat, his eyes fixed on his friend lying still on the floor, his lips moving silently, seemingly repeating the same word over and over….”Sherlock…..Sherlock”

Crouching down to bring himself level with the man on the couch, Lestrade spoke softly “Give me the gun, John.” And he reached forward to put his hand on the weapon. John didn’t even flinch as the gun was gently pulled from his lax fingers.

Keeping movement smooth in order not to spook the rocking man, the Detective then grasped John’s wrist, pulled it behind him and clipped the handcuff on his wrist. Without pause he did the same to the other wrist, and in no time at all John was shackled. As he proceeded to caution the good doctor, there was a sudden flurry of activity as the paramedics crowded into the room. They made short work of triaging Sherlock and in no time at all had him on a stretcher and on his way down to the waiting ambulance. John’s eyes followed his friends still pale form, but there was no light or life in them and his face was totally devoid of emotion. Even the soundless movement of his lips had stilled.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

45 minutes earlier…………………………………..

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John bounded up the stairs two at a time. “You were right, she…..” the words died on his lips as he took in the tableau that confronted him in the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the chair by his desk, his arms fastened to the arms of the chair by a length of fabric – a method designed to hold him still without leaving any marks. Similarly his legs were secured in such a way as to prevent him from moving or getting up. A gag ensured his silence.

“What the hell….?”

“Ah! Doctor Watson! I’m so glad you could join us.” The heavily accented voice came from the side of the room, and even as he turned towards the speaker part of John’s mind was acknowledging the clichéd speech. Briefly he took in the slightly balding head, olive skin and overfed physique, and was weighing up the possibility of overpowering their visitor (after all, John had been a soldier, and the opposition was more like one of Mycroft’s soft living Government cronies) when the sound of a safety catch removed from a gun, frighteningly close to the back of his head, changed any plans he may have been formulating.

“Don’t be foolish,” the balding head shook sadly “Surely you didn’t think I would come here alone?”

John ignored him, and turned his attention back to his friend. “You alright?”

A ghost of a smile flashed in Sherlock’s silver-grey eyes as both men recalled the same question being asked in a darkened swimming pool what seemed like a lifetime ago, and he nodded an affirmative.

John glanced again at Sherlock before addressing their visitor. “Take the gag off him. He’s not stupid enough to try to call out.”

After a moment’s consideration the material was untied, and Sherlock spat it out with a look of disgust. “Thank you John.” His soft baritone was calm.

“What do you want?”

“Mr Holmes here has been meddling in our business Doctor, and so we are going to teach him a lesson”

“Oh I don’t think so” Sherlock drawled. John’s lips twitched – Sherlock never changed no matter the odds were stacked against him!

“Oh yes,” came a female voice – the armed companion. “We intend to make sure you both learn what it means to meddle in things which do not concern you.”

“As far as I can see” Sherlock sounded bored, but John could almost see his mind working on an escape plan “you made it our concern when you broke into our flat!”

The man took two steps towards the captive, his hand raised as if to strike.

“No Fasse, no marks on his face!”

In that instant the dynamics of the situation changed, and John felt the muzzle of a gun pressed hard against the base of his skull.

“Sit down, Dr Watson.” John started to move towards his chair. “No Doctor, the couch if you please”.

As John stepped warily across to sit down Fasse pulled out a small but solid leather truncheon and brought it down hard across the back of Sherlock’s head. Instinctively John moved as if to help his friend, only to be pushed down hard onto the couch, and he got his first real look at the lady holding the gun. She had a slightly Asiatic look about her, and her accent placed her origins as somewhere around Siberia. That would make sense given the case they had recently been involved in.

“Let me look at him” John ground out through clenched teeth.

“Oh I don’t think so” came the smooth reply. “You’ll spoil everything!”

“Spoil….? For God’s sake….”

“No Dr Watson for your own sake I advise you, do not interfere” she leaned down until her face was level with his. “As it is, between you and your……” her eyes swivelled to Sherlock’s unconscious form, now laying on the floor at Johns feet “friend here you have cost me time, money and reputation!” Too late John felt the prick of the hypodermic needle in his shoulder and the sting of the drug as it entered his body. He tried to get to his feet but whatever he had been given was fast acting and his legs refused to obey. The last thing he heard was the lady’s voice, close to his ear, and very angry…”You WILL pay!!!”


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade scratched his head as the custody sergeant led John away to the cells.  He couldn’t understand why the doctor had made no effort to explain what had happened, nor did he resist being brought to the cells at Paddington Green police station. Rather belatedly he followed prisoner and escort down to the lower level, and was in time to see the sergeant chalking John Watsons name on the plate beside the cell door.

“Strange one that, Sir” the sergeant spoke as he turned towards the Detective Inspector “He’s just sitting there…”

Lestrade slid back the cover of the viewing window and looked in on his prisoner.  John had resumed his gentle rocking and once again he was silently chanting “Sherlock…..Sherlock….”

Sliding the cover shut again the DI shook his head sadly. “Get the duty police surgeon to see him ASAP”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The object of John’s chanting was currently lying in a side room of the Accident and Emergency department of St Bart’s Hospital. Two police officers stood guard outside the door, another sat in the room with the patient.

Sally Donovan had travelled in the ambulance with Sherlock, and was now pacing up and down outside the entrance to the building, waiting as instructed for Lestrade to arrive. As he stepped wearily out of his car she hurried across the tarmac.

“The freak’s gonna live.” She stated as she reached the car “the bullet passed through his side, no major organs touched, just blood loss really.  Oh, and he must have hit his head as he fell, he’s concussed,” she rolled her eyes expressively as she concluded “Hasn’t noticeably shut him up though!”

“He’s awake then?” they ascended the steps and entered the building, Sally needing almost to run to keep up with the Detective Inspector.

“Awake and demanding to know where his lapdog is…”

“Donovan!”

“Well it’s weird isn’t it Sir?  The freak says ‘jump’ and the doctor asks ‘how high?’ “She snorted in disgust “only it looks like this time he demanded too much and the good doctor shut him up”

Lestrade waved her to silence as he approached the officers guarding the door.  With a brief word to check that all was well he motioned them to stand aside and pushed his way into the room.

“Lestrade!  At last!  They won’t tell me anything and they won’t let me out of here….” As he spoke Sherlock tried to fling back the sheet that covered him. Donovan tittered; Lestrade leapt forward and hastily prevented him from completing the movement.

“You need to stay put” he told him, a slight smile brightening his features momentarily “Even you couldn’t get away with walking out of here naked!”

Sherlock looked confused. “Where are my clothes?  And where’s John?”

“Ah yes, John….”

“What?” the consulting detective looked up sharply at the older man. “Where is he?  Is he hurt?” unconsciously his hand moved to the thick padding covering the wound in his side. “What happened?”

Pulling up a chair the detective sat down, running a hand across his face before peering expectantly at the man in the bed.  “I was hoping that you could tell me!”

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As Dr Colin Mulhearn commenced his examination of the prisoner, he was worried by the unresponsiveness of the man who sat on the examination table before him. There was a distinct contrast between the tension in the body and the blank, disassociated stare. A quick check of his eyes showed his pupils to be dilated – a sure sign the doctor thought, of drugs.  But the man in front of him was also a doctor, and really didn’t have the look of a regular drug user.

“Dr Watson” Mulhearn’s voice was soft and unthreatening. “Have you taken any medication in the last couple of hours?”

The only change was in John’s eyes. No longer staring, they flicked rapidly around the room until they met the enquiring hazel eyes of the duty police surgeon. For a moment Mulhearn thought John was going answer, but then the blank mask settled once more.

“Can you take off your shirt and t-shirt please?”

No response.

“Dr Watson. I need to examine you – will you remove your clothes please?”

Still nothing.

Puffing out a frustrated breath, the police doctor moved to unbutton John’s shirt.  It slid easily from his body.  The t-shirt would be more difficult, but Mulhearn acknowledged to himself that it would have to come off if he was to complete a proper examination.  However, as he gently pulled at the back of the t-shirt in order to lift it forward over John’s head John started to become agitated, slapping the other man’s hands away.  Mulhearn backed off, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay.  I’ll leave it for now” Taking a deep breath he approached John again. Making no sudden moves, he ran a check of his patient’s stats.  Blood pressure and heart rate were slightly elevated but nothing to be seriously concerned over at this point. Next he ran an expert eye down the inside of each well-muscled arm.   There were no tell-tale track marks, new or old.  There was nothing else for it – he would have to take blood for testing.

Talking quietly as he worked, the doctor prepared a series of vacuum bottles to take several samples.  John had calmed down and sat docile once more, allowing the pressure band to be put onto his arm.  He didn’t even flinch when the needle slid into his vein.  In no time the job was done and Dr Mulhearn turned to put the samples into a kidney dish on the table but misjudged his movements and knocked the dish to the floor…

There was a loud crash – a scream – and the previously unresponsive Dr John Watson flung himself with a heartrending cry onto the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

_The world exploded in a wave of sand and flame. As the cries from the injured and dying assaulted his ears, Captain Watson cautiously looked up from where he had been flung from the armoured Land Rover, his head swivelling round to check that he was not moving in to the line of a snipers fire.  Bending double he started to run towards the burning vehicle, only to find his path blocked by a Golem! Skidding to a halt, and screaming in terror he tried to alter course to get away from it, but there were more, hundreds of them, surrounding him, laughing at his fear._

_For a brief moment he spun around in the centre of this terrifying ring, looking for an escape route, his breath coming in wretched sobs as he fought to control his panic.  Suddenly he saw it – one of the Golem was smaller than the others, and there was a greater distance between it and the creatures on either side of it. It was beckoning to him.  Acting purely on survival instinct he flung himself forward, clutching at the beasts’ throat….._

Mulhearn was momentarily stunned by the sudden change in his patient, and on hearing his terrified screaming moved forward to help.  Without warning John leapt up, his hands around the doctor’s throat, his expression one of deadly intent.

It was fortunate for the police surgeon that the custody sergeant had heard that first hysterical scream, and was already entering the room as John launched himself off the floor. He made a grab at the prisoner, managing only to latch onto his t-shirt which tore under the momentum of John’s forward motion.  Swiftly recovering he moved closer and locked one arm around John’s neck, his other hand pulling at John’s arm, trying to force him to release his victim.

The struggle was swift and furious, but between Mulhearn and the sergeant John was overpowered, and although he continued to struggle he seemed to have lost some of his ‘killing’ strength.

“Thanks Pete!” Mulhearn was more shaken than he cared to admit.

“No problem, Doc” the older man acknowledged. “What now? Sedation?”

“No, “a frown creased his brow. “No, I don’t know what he’s taken.  I’m not prepared to give him anything that might make him worse so we’ll have to restrain him, strap him down to the examination table until he’s calm.” And matching words to deeds, the two men lifted John onto the table and after handcuffing him to the side bars proceeded to secure him with webbing straps.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Nate Parker, senior registrar on duty in A&E that evening was extremely surprised to see the tall enigmatic looking city gent walking through the entrance to the department.  Not his usual clientele at all!  Stopping in front of him, the city gent swung his umbrella in the general direction of the police guard.

“You have my brother in that room” he said without preamble. “I have brought him fresh clothes.”

“Um….”

At that moment Lestrade stepped out of the room.  “Mycroft!” he exclaimed “Thank God!” then he looked at the doctor. “This is Mr Holmes’ brother.” he explained unnecessarily, causing Mycroft to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“Uh, so he has just told me…” Parker started to wonder when he had suddenly become so stupid!  It seemed he could barely string a sentence together. 

The Detective Inspector read the thought as it crossed his face and smiled broadly. “Oh, don’t worry – he has that effect on most people, until you get used to him.”

Parker grinned sheepishly, while Mycroft was a study in affronted dignity.

“We really should keep him in overnight” the registrar pointed out.

“No.”

“But….”

Very gently, in a voice that brooked no contradiction Mycroft repeated “No” and he smiled, chilling the medical man to the bone. “You really don’t want my young brother here any longer than is necessary.” And as if that explained everything, he nodded curtly and walked toward Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock looked up as Mycroft stepped through the door. “What do you want?” he spat, his already worn patience disappearing at the sight of his older brother.

“Surprisingly, dear brother, I’ve come to assist in getting you out of here.”

A suspicious frown creased Sherlock’s pale brow. “Why?”

Mycroft sighed softly, and poked at the worn flooring with his umbrella. “I’m taking you home”.

“What, to Baker Street?” Lestrade interjected, coming into the room in time to hear the remark. “No, I’m sorry but you can’t!”

Two heads snapped round as both Holmes brothers stared at the detective.

“But I need….”

“I meant to ….”

Lestrade held up his hands for silence. “One at a time gentlemen, please!”

The brothers glared, first at him and then at each other.

“I need to go back.  I need to know what happened….” There was an underlying uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice and he gingerly felt the lump at the back of his head. “This damned concussion….I can’t **think** clearly!”

Mycroft looked pityingly at his younger sibling. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.  I’m taking you back home.  To the family.” He waited a second for Sherlock’s brain to absorb the information before continuing. “Much as it pains me to tell you this, little brother, you have to know.  Your **flatmate** …” his nose wrinkled with distaste as he spat the word out “…was paid a significant sum of money to dispose of you!”

“No!” Lestrade and Sherlock spoke together.

“I’m afraid we have proof of his perfidy.” Mycroft withdrew a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and passed it into Sherlock’s shaking hand.  “Fortunately for you, he failed in that attempt.  Unfortunately for you, we need to keep you safe until we can track down and eliminate the rest of the crime ring that you threatened with your most recent case….”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening.  He was staring in disbelief at a copy of John Watson’s bank statement.  A bank statement that showed a payment of £150,000 from an un-named account with the Almazergienbank in Russia!

 

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	4. Chapter 4

Detective Inspector Lestrade wished he could savour the fact that Sherlock was, for once, rendered speechless, but he was himself still trying to come to terms with the idea that John could betray his best friend.  In confusion he looked from one Holmes brother to the other – Mycroft was looking at his younger brother with sympathy, whereas the object of that sympathetic glance seemed not to even realise there was anyone else in the room.  He was paler than the police officer had ever seen him, and his eyes were scanning the paper in front of him as if by re-reading the numbers on it he could make them go away.

“I don’t….I mean….” Sherlock stammered, finally looking up at Mycroft “Not John!”

“Mycroft….”  Whatever Lestrade was going to say died on his lips as his eyes were met by a cold hard stare.  Gathering his courage, he tried again. “Is there no possibility….?” Again he was interrupted, but this time by a gentle knock at the door.

“If you insist on discharging Mr Holmes, then I insist that I be allowed to examine him first” the senior registrar entered without waiting for an invitation, “although I must reiterate, I would prefer that he stay here at least overnight.” He peered expectantly at Mycroft, perhaps hoping he would listen to reason, but was disappointed to receive a negative shake of the head. With a sigh he walked to Sherlock’s bedside and pulled a small torch from his pocket. 

He checked Sherlock’s eyes, felt around the swelling at the back of his head, and made his patient sit up and lay down several times to see if there was any residual nausea or dizziness that was triggered by the movement.  Peering at the notes in front of him, he added a few words before finally asking “Can you remember yet what happened?”

Both Mycroft and Lestrade seemed to hold their breath, as if they both needed to hear the answer but for different reasons.

Sherlock frowned at the doctor.  “No.” his voice was harsh with frustration, his face screwed up in concentration.  “I can’t remember anything!”

“What is your last recollection?” the doctor probed gently.

“I can’t remember anything after John and I returned home yesterday…”

Parker nodded. “You are most likely suffering from what is commonly known as severe retrograde amnesia.” He smiled reassuringly as the consulting detective jerked his head round, turning wide panic filled eyes in his direction. “Now, there is no need to worry.  Retrograde amnesia is common with concussion and usually only affects the minutes leading up to the injury.  When that extends to hours before the incident, we call it severe, but it usually sorts itself out after a few hours – sometimes up to 24 hours – but there should be no lasting damage.” He pulled from his pocket a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Mycroft. “This is a list of symptoms to look out for.  If he develops any of these, you would be wise to either bring him back here or have your own doctor look at him.”

At the words ‘your own doctor’ Sherlock’s face crumpled, and hot tears flowed down his cheeks.  Lestrade gasped in shock. 

Without fuss, the doctor simply handed the patient a box of tissues as he explained to the room in general “This is quite a normal reaction for someone suffering from concussion.” And as Sherlock scrubbed at his face with a tissue Parker busied himself removing the IV cannula from the back of his left hand, quickly and efficiently putting a plaster over the small hole it left in the porcelain skin. He looked his patient in the eye, offering one last piece of advice. “Mr Holmes, you lost quite a lot of blood.  We have replaced as much fluid as we can, but my advice to you would be to go home, get some rest, and remember to keep hydrated” he gestured towards Sherlock’s head “it should help improve your memory too” and with brief nod to the others he left the room.

Mycroft placed a bag containing clothes on the foot of the bed. “Time to be leaving Sherlock.” He looked pointedly at the sheet that barely covered his brother’s modesty. “We will be waiting outside; do try not to be too long.”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Despite his brother’s instruction, Sherlock dressed slowly, trying to think and failing miserably.  One thought echoed around his head as he slowly pulled his shirt on – ‘Not John!’  The wound in his side burned with every movement, and he could feel every stich they had put in his flesh. Fortunately Mycroft had brought him trousers that were old and therefore slightly too large for his ever shrinking frame, making it easier to wear them over the thick dressings.

Finally ready he made his way somewhat unsteadily to the door, opening it to be confronted by a furious Mycroft and an obdurate Lestrade.

“I don’t care Mycroft” the older man was saying, trying desperately to hold his temper in check.  The Holmes brothers were enough to try the patience of a saint – which he certainly wasn’t – but this time he wasn’t going to give in, gracefully or otherwise! “It may come as something of a surprise to you, but I do know how to do my job, and if you intend to take your brother off to the country then I must get his statement tonight.”

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height. “I assure you Detective Inspector……..”

Whatever it was Mycroft was going to say was lost as Sherlock stepped between them.  “I want to see John.  I want to be taken to wherever you’re holding him – the Yard?”

“No,” Lestrade looked suddenly uncomfortable “no, we don’t have a custody suite or cells at the Yard…”

“You’ve locked him in a cell? Was that really necessary?”

“Look, Sherlock, you didn’t see him.  He wasn’t the John you know” running a hand through his hair tiredly Lestrade continued “He wasn’t the John that any of us know!”

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Colin Mulhearn was puzzled by the man lying on the examination table.  The blood samples had survived the skirmish were now on their way to St Bart’s under police escort, so the doctor  was able to concentrate on his….his what? Patient? Prisoner?  Certainly he was under arrest, making him a prisoner, and this was reinforced by the restraints holding him down, but that he was not well was also apparent.

The object of his curiosity was considerably calmer, although his breathing was erratic and he alternated between staring vacantly and flicking his gaze restlessly around the room.  The t-shirt that had been torn in the struggle now barely covered his body, and taking up a pair of scissors Mulhearn gently cut the remaining cloth away until, with a gasp he saw the angry puckered flesh on John’s left shoulder where an insurgent’s bullet had tried and failed to kill him.

“Dr Watson.” No response. “John.” Slightly louder this time, still nothing.  He took a deep breath and tried again. “John, can you tell me what happened to your shoulder?”

“He was shot in Afghanistan.” came a voice from the doorway.  Mulhearn spun round to see Detective Inspector Lestrade accompanied by two men, one a neat upright city gent with an expression reminiscent of outraged spinster at strip club, the other a tall thin man who looked far too pale to be healthy.

“Greg!” he moved forward to shake the officer’s hand “he one of yours?”  Lestrade nodded. 

Sherlock moved forward and peered down at his friend.  John’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment there seemed to be a spark of recognition there, then…..

“Spock!!” John’s high pitch squeak pierced the silence in the room, and he dissolved into hysterical giggles!

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Anderson sat in front of his computer staring at the words he had just written in his report.  It didn’t make sense, not because it wasn’t grammatically correct, but because it made nonsense of the whole Baker Street crime scene.  They had their perpetrator – John Watson. And the weapon – that Gratch semi that he had been holding. The bullet had been recovered – eventually – and that was where it all started to unravel.  Scratching his head he decided it was too late to start trying to pull this puzzle together, so he printed the report and closed his workstation down.  Maybe it would look clearer in the morning.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

John’s hysterical giggles echoed throughout the custody suite.  Lestrade, Mulhearn and the elder Holmes brother were all staring in shock at the prisoner. Sherlock however was frowning in concentration, trying to recall where he had heard that word before.  He stepped back a pace and leant against the doctor’s desk, his fingers steepled and resting against his lips, his eyes still on his friend.

“Oi! Can I have some of what he’s havin’?”  came a shout from one of the other cells, breaking the tense atmosphere in the room. 

Mulhearn stepped smartly towards the door and shut it firmly, blocking out the raucous drunk’s yelling. 

“Greg, what’s going on?” he asked as the noise faded.

“I wish I knew!” came the soft reply.  “Sherlock?  Any ideas?”  Sherlock nodded once, but said nothing. “Care to share?” Lestrades voice rose slightly, this evening was too surreal for his peace of mind.

“Doctor…..?” Sherlock turned his gaze suddenly to the police surgeon and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Oh….. er….. Mulhearn.  Colin Mulhearn…”  The doctor held out his hand but Sherlock ignored it. Mulhearn would have been annoyed had he not been caught by the piercing silver-grey glare that seemed to look straight into his brain.

“What have you given him?”

“N…nothing.” He gave himself a mental shake. “I didn’t know what he had taken…”

“He’s a doctor, “ Sherlock’s voice would have stripped the skin from a rhinoceros “He doesn’t **do** drugs!”

“Yes but….”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade spoke up “you didn’t see him.  When we arrested him he was spaced.  So out of it he didn’t even know who we were.”

“And given who his paymasters are….” Mycroft spoke for the first time.

“Shut up Mycroft!” Sherlock threw his brother a vicious look before turning to the Detective Inspector and the police doctor. “He suffers from PTSD, but this is nothing like his normal reaction” he glanced again at John, then back at Mulhearn. “He tried to strangle you?”

“How …..”

“Marks on your neck, the fact you have him restrained….”

Unconsciously Mulhearn rubbed his neck and quickly explained what had happened. 

Sherlock nodded “That sounds about right, if he was already in some sort of shock the noise would have tipped him over the edge.  Generally his…..flashbacks….leave him cowering in the corner, or thrashing helplessly in his bed……not trying to attack people, and certainly not laughing hysterically at a name he called me once while we were working on a case!”

“What….?” Three voices spoke in unison…..

 

_Sherlock sat in front of the fire, his mind racing, adrenalin rushing through his body, hardly listening to what John is saying to him._

_“Look at me, I’m afraid, John….Afraid!”_

_“Sherlock….”_

_“I ought to be able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from….. **feelings** ….but look, you see?…Body’s betraying me.  Interesting, yes? **Emotions** …..the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment…”_

_“yeah alright…. **Spock** , just….take it easy……”_

 

“Baskerville?”

Sherlock nodded his attention back on John whose giggles had subsided and were beginning to sound more like sobs. “Release him.” He said imperiously. “He won’t hurt anyone now.”

“Afraid I can’t do that” Mulhearn shook his head “He may not hurt us, but he may harm himself.  Until we get the blood test results, until we know what he’s taken...”

“What will it take to get you to understand?  He. Doesn’t. Take. DRUGS!  He’s……Oh!”  Sherlock’s suddenly became unfocussed, as if seeing something far away. “Oh!” he whispered again.  He pushed himself away from the desk suddenly, wincing as the wound in his side protested. “You have taken blood samples, yes?” his hands gripped the police surgeon’s arms painfully. “Where have you sent them?”

“St Bartholomew’s Hos…..”

“Lestrade I need to get back to Bart’s!”

“No, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s face was like thunder. “No! I agreed – against my better - judgement to allow you to come here.  Now you must give your statement and we will leave.”

Sherlock rounded on his brother. “No point, Mycroft, I still can’t remember what happened.  I can, however, remember what our last case was.  If I’m right – and let’s face it, brother, I usually am – then I can help John by confirming what drug is in his system.”   He turned again to the detective inspector. “Lestrade?...”

“Sherlock, you’re coming home….”

Suddenly Sherlock’s legs buckled beneath him. Mulhearn and Lestrade both leapt forward to catch him, easing him into a chair.

Clutching his side and breathing heavily the younger man clutched at Greg’s sleeve.  “I think I need to be in hospital.  My head hurts, I can’t see clearly, and ….the pain….”

“That’s it” putting the full weight of his authority into his voice Lestrade over-ruled the British Government for the second time that evening.  “I’m taking him back. You can either follow us Mycroft, or you can go away – frankly at the moment I don’t care which, just get out of the way.  Colin…?” he gestured to the man in the chair. “give me a hand will you please?”

Gently they helped the consulting detective to his feet, and between them they slowly walked him to the door.  He paused as he passed John, now lying panting on the examination table, and briefly he laid his hand on his friends arm before allowing himself to be led out of the room.

It was a strange procession that made its way out to Lestrades car.  The patient, the doctor and the policeman leading the way, the brother stalking furiously behind them.  After helping to ease the pale young man into the back seat of the car, Mulhearn excused himself and returned to the custody suite and John. 

Lestrade looked at Mycroft over the roof of the car as he paused before getting into the driving seat. “Really Mycroft, I’ll arrange for officers to remain outside his room, he’ll be safe enough.”

“Tell them I’ll be there first thing to take him home.” Mycroft returned through gritted teeth, glaring at his brother sitting quietly in the car, his head flopped back against the head-rest, his eyes closed. Lestrade nodded and hunched down into his seat.

As the car pulled away Sherlock opened his eyes, looked at his brother and grinned!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock kept up the charade of being ill and in pain all the way to the hospital.  He knew if the older man suspected he was acting he would hand him straight over to the not-so-tender mercies of his brother, so he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes and took the time to sift the data that he could access.  He was still frustrated by the black hole that had swallowed the whole of the day, leaving him feeling vulnerable and unsure for the first time since the Hound.

As the car pulled up outside the Accident and Emergency department Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he was moving, out of the car and hurrying towards the pathology department almost before the wheels had stopped turning.

Ignoring both the angry twinges of pain and the even angrier shout from the duped Detective, he pushed on through the double doors and down the corridor.

“Bloody hell Sherlock!” In his haste to catch up with the headstrong genius Lestrade had leapt out of his car and left it parked across the entrance to the hospital – there would be hell to pay later! – but for now he was running down the corridor, trying to catch up with a madman! “Will you **please** slow down and tell me what the hell you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock spun round and walked two steps back, causing Lestrade to skid to a halt. “I’m trying to find out what happened.” He explained as if to a particularly dim child, “and I couldn’t do it if Mycroft insisted on dragging me off to…”

Lestrade was livid. “Do you mean….. I just brought you here against your brother’s wishes, on the pretext of you needing medical attention….and you…. **you were just pretending**?” and as Sherlock proceeded once more towards the path lab he fell in step beside him. “Do you realise I could lose my job over this? Your brother is not the type to take kindly to being made a fool of….”

“Look, that last case we were working on. Mycroft intimated there is a connection, and as much as it pains me to say it, I fear he is right…”

“Fear?”

“A Russian drugs ring. We broke it, and most of the UK arm is either dead or in one of Mycroft’s secure facilities” he pushed through the lab door as he spoke “If they are involved I need to know what they’ve given John.”

“What about the money….”

Sherlock waved the thought away as insignificant – he knew John, trusted him like he had trusted no other, his brother included.

“Ah, Molly,” He greeted the pathologist “a little late to be working isn’t it, even for you.”

Molly Hooper looked as if she’d seen a ghost. “Sherlock!” she gasped “I heard you were….that you…that John…”

“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated”   Sherlock said, quoting Mark Twain. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “You haven’t answered my question”

“Well, it wasn’t really a question, was it?” she looked up at him, flustered. “I was in the office when John’s bloods came in, and offered to run the tests.” She glanced down at the vials on the counter beside her microscope. “I’m just about to get started.”

“No. I’ll run the tests.” He looked up as she drew a sharp breath in “Molly, I don’t have time to waste here, I think I know what to look for….”

His audience, suddenly still, looked at him expectantly.

“….an NMDA receptor antagonist….” 

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The hands on the clock crawled round to midnight, one a.m., and Greg Lestrade wondered if he would still have a career once this was all over. He had long since taken the time to move his car, parking it more considerately in a bay reserved for police vehicles and now, while Sherlock worked in the quiet laboratory, he’d had time to think about his actions since being called to the Baker Street flat by a distraught Mrs Hudson.  Had he really defied Mycroft Holmes not once but twice?  It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if the second time had not been a fool’s errand – if Sherlock had genuinely required medical assistance - he could have justified his actions, but he didn’t, and so Greg couldn’t.

Molly slipped back into the room with coffees for them all. Sherlock ignored her, taking the cup and sipping the hot liquid, but Lestrade smiled his appreciation. 

“Any luck?”

“Luck has nothing whatsoever to do with it, Molly” Sherlock carefully placed two small vials of John’s blood into the centrifuge and set the machine going. “If my suspicions are correct….” His thin hands curled around his cup, his narrowed eyes watching the machine as it spun quietly in the corner. A tense silence settled over the three as they waited.

Throughout the night Molly had watched Sherlock, watched as he worked, watched as he moved around the lab.  Quietly but decisively she got up from the stool at the counter and walked out of the room, neither man noted her leaving nor her return a few moments later, but in her hand was a small pot containing a single round brown pill.  Wordlessly she handed it to Sherlock.

“Molly….?”

“Diclofenac.  You can take it, Sherlock, it’s not an opiate, but it is relatively effective as a pain killer”

Silver grey eyes scanned her upturned face, and his expression softened into a rare smile. “Thank you Molly Hooper, that is very thoughtful of you.”  As he swallowed the tablet he noticed the blush that tinged her cheeks before she turned back to her own large cup of nearly cold coffee and his attention was reclaimed by his work. 

The machine was slowing down, the test almost complete. With infinite care Sherlock removed the first of the two vials and moved back to the table. The liquid had separated, the blood laying heavily at the bottom of the container and a small layer of brownish liquid on the top.  It was this liquid that he drew up into a pipette and dripped carefully into a petri dish. With a fresh pipette he added a few drops of an innocent-looking colourless liquid to the dish, and his companions watched as his eyes widened in horror. “I think you need to have John brought here immediately”

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Not knowing the results of the blood test had become less important to Dr Mulhearn, as he watched John thrashing agitatedly in his restraints.  His breathing was erratic, and regular checks on his stats showed his heart rate and blood pressure elevating steadily as the night wore on. Putting his head out of the door he called to the sergeant. “Pete, can you call an ambulance for me please? I’m not happy with the deterioration in this guy, he needs hospitalisation.”

“Sure. Will you need an officer to escort?”

“No, I’ll go with him.  If we keep him restrained he should be okay.”

The sergeant nodded and picked up the phone.

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  Lestrade listened carefully to the voice at the other end of the phone. “Okay,” he responded finally, “we’ll meet them at A&E.” Shutting the call down he looked across at Sherlock, watched as one hand moved up to clutch in frustration at his unruly curls. “Colin’s already on his way with him, he wasn’t happy with the way things were going. Care to share your findings?”

“PCP”

“ **What**?” rocking to his feet the officer stared hard at the man in front of him “are you sure?”

“Almost pure. Did you say he’s on his way?”

“We need to get to A&E – he should be here anytime now.”

The two men moved towards the door. Molly made as if to follow then stopped, realising that, no matter what happened; Sherlock would accept neither comfort nor sympathy from her. Biting her lip to keep from crying, she removed her lab coat and grabbed her handbag from the cupboard – there was nothing left here for her to do.


	7. Chapter 7

John was taken directly from the ambulance to the Intensive Care Unit. Sherlock had already advised the doctors of the blood test results so everything had been ready to treat him.  Fretting at being made to wait outside the consulting detective prowled back and forth by the window, watching as the doctors and nurses worked around his friend. He in turn was being watched by Greg Lestrade and Colin Mulhearn, the police doctor seeing at first hand the tremendous reserves of energy that kept the injured man going when many others would have succumbed to their body’s need to rest and repair.

“What is that they’ve just injected him with?” Sherlock suddenly spun round to face the doctor, his eyes narrowing.

“A tranquilizer, probably Diazepam, to reduce the hypertension and tachycardia, and should help bring the aggression under control too.”

“So why’s he still restrained…”

“He’s still at risk of hurting himself…”

“And, until we get to the bottom of what happened, he’s still a prisoner!” Lestrade added quietly.

Sherlock scowled at him and resumed his pacing.

“You should rest, Sherlock.  Your brother will be here in a few hours..”

Sherlock sneered “Then you can see him, because I have no intention of going anywhere until I know John’s safe.  And I still need to give my statement – do you really want him dragging me off to the country before I can do that?”

“Since when do you care about giving statements?” Greg scoffed, but his incredulous expression faded as the younger man turned back to him.

“Since someone took the time and trouble to frame my only friend for what should have been my murder, before trying to kill him.” came the quiet response.

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Mycroft’s oak panelled office glowed warmly in the yellowish light of the desk lamps. The man himself was sitting facing the leaded window, but his eyes were not seeing London as they were unfocussed, looking inwards, seeing the events of the past 24 hours.  Mycroft sighed. It was not for the first time that night he regretted involving Sherlock with the Russian Drugs cartel.

He knew within minutes of his brother reaching the hospital that he had gone straight to the lab to conduct the blood tests himself – he acknowledged that he really hadn’t needed his minion at the hospital to tell him this; his brother could be so predictable. 

He had been advised when the police surgeon had decided to hospitalise their prisoner, and again of the results of his brothers work.  He could pinpoint the precise time Dr Watson had entered the ICU, how long it had taken to administer the counter measures to the drug in his system and subsequently link him up to the banks of monitors that would register any life-threatening changes. Uncharacteristically Mycroft’s hand clenched angrily on the arm of his chair, and as he realised what he was doing he looked down accusingly at the offending limb, as if it was responsible for this whole sorry situation.

Glancing at the clock-face of Big Ben, just visible from his Whitehall office, he realised he had been putting off this call for nearly three hours.  He didn’t even bother to try to convince himself that it was in deference to the lateness of the hour that he hadn’t put in his call to the Russian capital, the ambassador was no stranger to diplomatic incidents waking him in the middle of the night, such was the nature of the job.  It would now be 6am local time at the British Embassy in Moscow – 3am here in London – not unreasonable then for Mycroft to ring now to speak to his old friend Ralph Jarvis…..because right now he wanted answers!

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The police officers that should have been guarding Sherlocks hospital room were stationed now outside the room where John lay unconscious, his body still twitching as the effects of the PCP warred with the tranquiliser antidote.

Sherlock himself had entered the room like a whirlwind as soon as he was allowed, and proceeded to ask questions about every stage of his friend’s treatment and – he hoped – recovery. Waving away the harassed staff nurse, Colin Mulhearn took it upon himself to answer the barrage of questions, but not before he had acquired two comfortable chairs from the family room down the corridor (one for Sherlock, one for him), or before he has persuaded Lestrade to go home to shower and change - getting a couple of hours sleep had been his first suggestion, but that had been met with a stark refusal, the D.I. needed to be around when Mycroft arrived.

Data gathered, Sherlock sat back in his customary ‘thinking’ pose, his eyes never leaving the pale, still face of his friend.  In the background an alarm sounded one of the machines, and the police surgeon stood, checked John’s respiratory rate and reached across to silence the machine. As he turned away from the monitors he caught Sherlock’s enquiring gaze.

“Right now we need to be sure the tranquilizers don’t interfere with his regular breathing pattern.  Suppressing the PCP means that we are slowing everything down and we may have to support his respiration – the alarm is set to give us a maximum response time, to catch it before it goes critical.”

Sherlock nodded and returned to his attention to John.

 _“Sherlock?  Sherlock!  You were right, she…..”_ Sherlock gasped.  It was as if there was a light flickering at the back of his mind, and as it flickered it illuminated an echo from his lost memory. “John?” he didn’t realise he had spoken aloud. “What was it John?” his mind continued, searching for a link – a word, a phrase, anything that would trigger remembrance – but his mind stayed stubbornly silent.  Hissing in frustration he closed his eyes and waited. 

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There were times in his life when Anderson really hated Sherlock – and this was one of them!  All through his lonely evening meal – wife away, Donovan out with her sister - through the latest episode of his favourite police procedural (and didn’t he just wish his life could be like CSI New York!), his thoughts kept dragging him back to the crime scene at 221b Baker Street.

“Bloody Hell!” he yelled explosively at his empty living room and flinging the TV remote onto a chair, “what does a person have to do to get away from that man?” In frustration he picked up the printed report and read it through again.  Reviewing the evidence for possibly the twentieth time he suddenly realised what had been staring him in the face all along.  He picked up his mobile and dialled Lestrade.

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“This had better be good, Anderson!” Lestrade growled, glaring at the forensic scientist standing before him. The detective had had barely enough time to ease his weary muscles under the hot water before the insistent ringing of his phone dragged him back to the kitchen of his small flat, and he had really not been impressed to hear Anderson’s voice at the other end, insisting that they meet at the flat. “Do you realise what the time is?”

Anderson didn’t bother to grace that question with an answer – yes he did know! He’d been up half the night himself. Instead he reached into his pocket for John’s keys and opened up the building.

It was eerily quiet inside, the police had insisted that Mrs Hudson stay with her sister until they could clear the scene. Despite this, the two men moved stealthily up the stairs to the first floor flat, walking into the living room and switching on the lights.

“The ballistics on the bullet we found match the gun you took from John Watson” Anderson started to explain, “but something bothered me about **where** we found the bullet!” he paused for effect.

“Get on with it!”

“Oh….er…yes, well…you see, for Sherlock to have hit his head as he fell he would have to have been standing when he was shot….” a glance at his boss’ face warned him he needed to come to the point soon “and if that was the case we would have pulled the bullet out of the book case, or from the wall and not from where we did find it.”

“And that was…..?”

Anderson pointed down to the bloody stain on the carpet. “Right in the middle of that!”

“But that would mean that John stood over him and fired….”

“And that he was already down and out, so to speak.” Anderson looked up at Lestrade “And whatever else I may think about that man, I don’t think John Watson would shoot a man who was already down.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Colin Mulhearn looked up as the sun rose through the window of John’s ICU room and pondered on the weirdest night he had ever had.  It should have been a simple medical check on a prisoner – generally the easiest half hour’s pay he would ever earn – but so far he had been half strangled, had wrestled his patient into restraints, had sat listening to the fretful sobs that had followed the hysterical giggling, and now here he was, standing sentinel with the man for whose attempted murder he had been arrested in the first place!  He had tried to talk to the man sharing his vigil, but once his questions had been satisfactorily answered all communication stopped and as far as the doctor could ascertain he had withdrawn into himself.

In truth Sherlocks attention had never wavered from John’s face, his eyes only flicking towards the police surgeon when the alarm sounded, but each time it seemed John was pulling himself back towards the land of the living without the need for medical intervention, and each time he acknowledged the other man’s reassurance with a brief nod before returning his gaze to the man in the bed. Memory was slowly returning, and the pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together…..

 _The doorbell sounded..…a single ring….maximum pressure, just under the half second…their next client!  Sherlock grinned as he moved swiftly down the stairs to answer the door.  Mycroft’s case was as good as done – he was just waiting for John to return and confirm his suspicions that Alexia_ [ _Katerinochkin_ ](http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Katerinochkin&action=edit&redlink=1) _was indeed in the country and not, as Mycroft’s contacts believed, back home in her native Russia.  A new case was just what he needed right now! He opened the front door………………._

_“Mr Holmes” To passers-by the couple on his doorstep would have looked like any ordinary couple and would not have attracted the slightest attention, but as Sherlock looked down he saw the muzzle of a semi-automatic hand gun pointing at his heart.  His eyes moved back up, and he found himself looking into the cold black eyes of Russia’s most dangerous drug dealer….._

With a start Sherlock sat up.  Like floodgates opening information swept like a tsunami into his brain and his memories along with it. Frantically he searched his jacket pockets for his phone. Mycroft!  The idiot hadn’t brought it from the flat!

“Give me your phone!” he demanded of Mulhearn

“What?”

“Your phone – give it to me! Now!” One thin, impossibly elegant hand was stretched imperiously towards the other man who handed over his mobile before he’d even realised what he was doing.  Without a word of thanks Sherlock opened a new message and typed furiously, hitting the send button and almost throwing the device back at its owner.

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Mycroft pulled his phone from his pocket and looked at the number displayed – not one he knew – but something stopped him from just deleting the message.  His thumb hovered over the message indicator for a second more before lightly brushing the touch screen and opening the text.

**KATERINOCHKIN.    SH**

He looked from his phone to the printout of an e-mail that had been handed to him not five minutes earlier.

**Mycroft,**

**Your niece Kate and her boyfriend have yet to return from their holiday in Europe. Their itinerary is not known, and therefore their return date is unclear. Funds placed in her account were transferred two days ago – this account seems only to be used for holiday funds, no other transactions. We will advise when she returns, and ask her to contact her favourite uncle.**

**Yours,**

**Ralph.**

 

He frowned, too little information still. How like his brother he was when it came to this appetite for data.  Swiftly and decisively he opened the e-mails on his phone and fired off two more requests – requests that the recipients would take as orders, or risk losing their jobs!

 

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Locking the Baker Street premises once more, Lestrade and Anderson had gone their separate ways – Lestrade back to the hospital, Anderson home to try to reclaim some of his lost sleep.  The DI had been sufficiently impressed with the forensics officer’s work that he had virtually ordered him to take the morning off.  Now he glanced at his watch as he strode along the hospital corridors. Damn, he was going to be late and Mycroft will have dragged Sherlock of to whatever country retreat/mansion/palace that serves as the family home!  Bugger! Increasing his pace he allowed himself a wry grin at the thought of the Holmes brothers living in a palace….well John had said that Sherlock had a mind palace – why not a real one too? That thought caused his stride to falter slightly. John… he wondered how he was doing, berating himself for not thinking sooner about the normally placid and unassuming doctor who over the past eighteen months or more had become Sherlock’s constant shadow, the buffer between the sociopath and the people he insulted and belittled, the soothing influence.  His gut instinct told him that no news was good news, that he would have been told if John had….no, he didn’t even want to think that word!  The sinking feeling he’d experienced when Sherlock had identified the drug in John’s blood returned with a vengeance.

Rounding a corner he saw that his two officers were still in place, and he released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. If Mycroft  
had already taken Sherlock he was sure they would have looked….different…somehow. Mycroft had that effect…

With a nod to the men he entered John’s room.  It was surprisingly calm and quiet, and his entrance went unnoticed by Sherlock and the police doctor, both men were standing over the bed, watching its occupant intensely.

“What now?”

“Oh!” Mulhearn’s head swivelled round, his eyes widening in surprise, “didn’t realise you’d be back so soon Greg.”

“Soon?  It’s been four hours!  AND I didn’t manage to get any sleep!”

“He’s calmer now” the doctor waved a hand in the direction of the bed “but he seems to be trying to ask for something…someone maybe?  It’s not like before, it’s more….” he thought for a moment “structured? Like he needs….I don’t know..” frustration trailed the sentence into silence and he looked helplessly at older man.

“I think he’s trying to tell me something.” Sherlock leaned closer, trying to catch the words.

“Like what?” Greg’s voice was disbelieving “For God’s sake Sherlock – he’s been drugged….overdosed! And you think him still capable of……….”

Sherlock smiled a chilling half-smile. “I don’t think Lestrade, I **know.** Even with his system still addled by drugs John is more capable than most of your officers on a  very good day!”

“There really isn’t any need to be rude, brother dear!” Mycroft stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in every detail of the room and its occupants. “I see you recovered remarkably well from your…..um.. indisposition.”

“You received my text? “

“I did”

“I knew John had nothing to do with this…”

“My contacts in Moscow have been doing some checking into that bank account....”

“When are you going to realise, Mycroft….”

“Just because Katerinochkin..”

Greg Lestrade took his life – and his career – in his hands and for the third time in less than 24 hours he stood up to the embodiment of the British government, and stepped between the warring brothers. “I think we have sufficient evidence that John didn’t shoot your brother, Mycroft.  In fact we should have realised that if he had, then Sherlock would be residing in the mortuary right now.”

“Well of course he didn’t!” Sherlock’s tone was scathing. “It was Katerinochkin.  Or her lackey, Fazil Sahin, known to his comrades as Fasse, Turkish national.  He fled from Denizli following his implication in a series of particularly vicious killings.”  He stopped, and looked keenly at Lestrade. “You say you have evidence that will clear John?”

The DI drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, flicked a glance between the three other men in the room and rubbed a hand around his chin. “Well, if you discount the fact that the man’s a soldier, so he should be able to shoot straight” he gave Sherlock a calm stare as he said this. “Anderson of all people found the one piece of evidence that gives cause for doubt – that you were already on the floor before the shot was fired.”

 

“John was sitting on the couch.” Sherlock frowned, reaching for the memory. “She had the gun pressed to his head. Wait – you let **Anderson** loose in my flat?”

“Be thankful I did Sherlock” Lestrade was angry now, angry and really pissed off with being spoken to like an idiot by these two. “While your brother here was trying to prove his guilt, Anderson gave up his night to prove otherwise!” If he thought Sherlock would be grateful he really should have known better.

“That man is so inept I’m surprised he can find his way home!  It took him ALL night?  I would have….”

Lestrade didn’t allow the genius to continue.  He stepped up close, his face inches from the other man’s face. “You ungrateful shit, Sherlock.  You don’t have to like the man, but at this moment I for one am thankful that he has given me a reason not to take John back to the cells when he gets out of here, and so should you be.” Then for good measure he turned to face Mycroft. “And you.  Don’t you have people that can sort this mess out?  Shouldn’t you be helping prove John’s innocence instead of taking this lunacy at face value?  I thought you cared about your brother – funny way of showing it mate, trying to get his only friend arrested for attempted murder!”

For a moment you could hear a pin drop, such was the silence in the room. The hum from the machines faded into nothing.  Sherlock was looking at his brother with just a hint of a smirk twisting his lips, Mycroft on the other hand looked as if he had swallowed a wasp!  If it hadn’t been for the fact that Lestrade could definitely hear the sound of his career flushing down the toilet he would have laughed at that expression – it was priceless. At least he would go out with a bang!


	9. Chapter 9

The tension in the room broke as a senior staff nurse bustled in and stood in front of Sherlock. “Your dressings need changing.” Her voice was soft but firm. Sherlock stared at her uncomprehendingly – now it was Mycroft’s turn to smirk.

“I’ve refrained from forcibly removing you from London brother, you will submit to this or I **will** take you home.” The point of his ever-present umbrella tapped against the side of his highly polished shoe. “While I’m not convinced that you are right Sherlock, I have gone along with it so far but I cannot and will not allow your wound to remain unchecked.  And it’s no use you telling me you you’re fine. That pain relief Miss Hooper provided you with was a misguided move, had you not had it you maybe would have stopped this idiocy sooner.”

“If you think that Mycroft you don’t know your brother!”

“And you do Detective Inspector?”

“I know what I see.”  Lestrade tried for a more conciliatory tone, realising that there was enough antagonism in the air with his adding to it.  “Sherlock, let the lady do what she needs to do. Give a little here, eh?”

Sherlocks narrowed eyes stared at his brother as if assessing the seriousness of his threat. What he read there was the certain knowledge that if he didn’t take Lestrades advice he would most certainly find himself removed from the hospital.  As stubborn as he could be, he was also smart enough to know that if he wasn’t here to make sure John was safe, then the ex-army doctor would conveniently disappear without a trace.  With a nod and an air of martyrdom he turned to the nurse “If you must – but I’m not leaving this room.”

Having stood in silence listening to the exchange, this last statement didn’t surprise Staff Nurse Jennings in the least, but her reaction surprised everyone in the room. Grasping the injured man’s arm gently but firmly she guided him out of the door and into a curtained cubicle area at the far end of the ICU. As they left Greg assured Sherlock that he would keep watch over John until he returned.

“This isn’t ideal” she spoke in a matter-of-fact way, motioning him to remove his shirt and lay down. She eased the waistband of his trousers down so she could get to the old dressing. “Really you should be lying in bed giving your body the chance to recover” She smiled at him, keeping up a flow of easy chatter while she worked.

Sherlocks breath hissed through his teeth as the nurse carefully removed the tape holding the dressing, his skin feeling bruised and sore. Once it was exposed he took his first look at the injury, noting dispassionately the number of stitches (three, probably with the same number of corresponding stitches at the back), the redness and slight swelling around the edge of the wound where the stitches had been put under pressure and pulled slightly. He moved to get a better view, and was firmly pushed back against the bed. 

“Mr Holmes, please, this is difficult enough without you moving about.” There was humour underlying the stern words.

“John wouldn’t have had any difficulty re-dressing it.” He remarked spitefully, unreasonably annoyed at the woman and her cheerful demeanour.  She in turn just shook her head and ignored his bad temper, taping the fresh dressing down with swift economical movements.  No sooner was the last piece of surgical tape applied than Sherlock swung himself off the bed and pulling his shirt on he stalked back to John’s room.

Greg was standing beside John’s bed, his head slightly to one side as if trying to hear something, but with a quick glance at John’s face Sherlock could see that he was still – almost too still – but the monitors were quietly and reassuringly bleeping, counting the sleeping doctors heartbeats, registering the life that clung tenaciously within that motionless body.

Mycroft was standing off to the side of the room, in his hand a piece of paper that had been delivered to him by Anthea.  She was busy browsing the internet on her Blackberry, totally oblivious to her all but her phone and her boss.

Sherlock frowned, something was different. Then “Where’s the doctor?  Mulhearn, where is he?”

Greg looked up from his contemplation of the man in the bed. “He’s gone” he said quietly, “He hadn’t slept all night, and unlike you – and me for that matter – lack of sleep doesn’t come as a part of the job description. The nurses have been told, they know to come running if the alarm sounds.”

Sherlock nodded then turned his attention to his brother. “What’s that? More of your ‘incriminating’ evidence?  I won’t believe it, not until John admits it to me himself!”

“And how likely is that do you think?” Mycroft’s face started to twist into its customary sneer, but then he thought better of it and he drew himself up as if steeling himself to perform a distasteful duty. “Actually, this is more evidence that I may have been…..wrong.” it pained him to admit it, and Sherlock was well aware of that fact.  At any other time he would have goaded and taunted his brother mercilessly, but he was too relieved. He held his hand out for the paper, and when his brother seemed reluctant to part with it he glared fiercely at him.

“Mycroft you were swift enough to wave what you referred to as ‘evidence of his perfidy’ in my face – it’s only right you do the same with the evidence of his innocence.”

His elder brother nodded, just once, conceding defeat, and handed over the report.  Sherlock drank in the words like a man dying of thirst – words that told of the knee-jerk reaction of a multi-million pound drugs ring to the probings of a consulting detective and his blogger, his assistant, his friend.  And they investigated that friend, they found that he wasn’t a rich man, that he lived frugally because of his lack of funds, and hit on the ideal way to make him look as guilty as hell.  The missing piece was the ‘how’ – how had they accessed his bank account?  Sherlock read the words over again, then turned enquiring eyes on his sibling.  Mycroft read and understood the question in those quicksilver eyes, and confirmed that he too was waiting for the answer to that particular piece of the puzzle.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who were missing him, John’s back in play (in bold italics)!

**_John could hear voices. He struggled to remember if he knew the owners of those voices. One mentioned him by name._**   “……I won’t believe it, not until John admits it to me himself!” **_Admits what? Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he open his eyes and just see who was speaking, then maybe….. He sighed internally, it hurt too much now, maybe he should just give up!_**

Sherlock’s attention was caught by the heart monitor.  John’s heart rate had increased, not by much, but at the same time his eyes moved as if in REM sleep – was he dreaming? Sherlock leaned over to speak in his friend’s ear. “John?  John can you hear me?” No response. “Come on, John, wake up” there was an edge of desperation to Sherlocks voice.

Another nurse this time came into the room moved quietly around the bed clipboard in hand, checking John’s stats and making notes from the readings on the machines. Sherlock could read everything about her life in her face and the way she moved, but was frustrated to find he could read nothing from her reactions that would tell him how John was doing. He watched as she double checked the readings, laid a gentle hand on John’s forehead as if to confirm his temperature, then moved to replace the charts at the bottom of the bed.

“Well?”

“Dr Watson is stable, otherwise not much change.”

 Sherlock flung himself into the chair at John’s bedside and steepled his fingers against his lips.  He waited until the nurse left the room before speaking again.

“Mycroft, Alexia Katerinochkin was in the country while we were pulling the UK arm of her empire apart.  Why didn’t your people know?  Why didn’t they alert you?”

Mycroft raised one expressive eyebrow.  The thought was not a pretty one, but he had already started to wonder the same thing. “A spy in my own camp…” it was not a statement, not a question, more a thought that escaped him verbally.

**_Katerinochkin…..Katerin….Kal….Kallie…..  The names were linked……why couldn’t he remember? He was so thirsty, but he still couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t get the attention of the voices. Why did he feel so helpless?_ **

“We were careful, **very** careful Mycroft, you know that.  We made sure no-one was taken until we could take them all, so how did she know if not from an insider?”

“Yes, yes, I hear you Sherlock” Mycroft was tetchy now – his security should have been watertight.  He caught Anthea’s eye and nodded briefly, she rapidly fired off a message on her blackberry.

“Hang on – what are you saying here?” Greg suddenly seemed to catch up with the conversation.

“Oh, are you still here?”

“ **Yes** Sherlock – I’m still here! So anytime you want to tell me what the hell is going on….?”

“They shouldn’t have known we were on to them. All their people – all their **known** people were caught or…”

“Yes okay, let’s not go there Sherlock, I’d rather not know.”

Sherlock nodded, understanding the older man’s reluctance. “Hmm, right, so if we had eliminated all the known operatives, how did they get to John and me?”

“So you think Mycroft has a spy… God help us!”

“There are still questions though Sherlock.” Mycroft turned the subject neatly, “such as how they managed to subdue you without leaving a mark? I cannot believe you sat there meekly waiting for them to shoot you…”

“No of course I didn’t….!”

“But he’s right” Greg  interrupted him “when we arrived there was no sign that anyone other than you and John had been in the room, and certainly no sign that you’d been held captive in any way.”

“Look, the Russians have some ingenious ways with….” Sherlocks voice faded to silence as he looked down at his arms as they lay along the armrests of his chair.  His eyes narrowed. Then he hastily pushed the sleeves of his shirt up above his elbows and stared at the skin of his forearms, examining them closely.

“What?” Greg asked. “What have you remembered?”

Sherlock looked up with a frown. “I was tied to the chair beside my desk…”

“You couldn’t have been!” Mycroft exclaimed. “There are no bruises, no marks on you at all!”

**_John listened to the voices. “Of course there were no marks, they used…..”_ **

“…..they used a wide length of fabric, wrapped around me in such a way as to hold me firmly but leave no sign of my having been restrained.”  Sherlocks eyes took on a faraway look as he continued more to himself than to his companions “I wonder how many times they used that technique and got away with it?”

**_“They wanted to hurt you – they wanted to kill you – they wanted me to do it……” He felt as if he was wading chest deep in treacle, struggling towards the answers to his questions, seeing pictures as if in a gallery as he passed by. Who was it he was trying to reach? He couldn’t see his face….._ **

The heart monitor registered a rise again, this time it was quite significant and coupled with an increased respiratory rate.  Lestrade stepped across to the door, leaned out and caught the eye of the nurse at the desk.  She hurried into the room and rapidly checked John’s stats.  Heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, they were all rising, not dangerously so, more returning to normal.

“I’ll call the doctor,” the nurse spoke to the room in general. “It’s most likely just the effect of the tranquilizer wearing off, but better to be safe than sorry!”

As she walked back to the desk to make the call, Anthea handed her phone to Mycroft and he glanced down at the message on the screen. With a small nod he handed the phone back. “I’m going to my office Sherlock. There’s nothing I can do here.” 

“What have you learned?” Sherlock was up on his feet in a second, the sudden movement conspiring with the injuries and lack of food to make him sway dizzily for a moment, and his hand shot out to grasp his brother’s arm. “Tell me!”

After a moment’s hesitation Mycroft complied. “We have found some…shall we call them _irregularities_ in protocol. I want to have some more checks made, I can do that better from the office.” For a moment his face softened. “Try to get some rest Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s hand dropped back to his side and Mycroft turned to leave the room, nodding an acknowledgement to the doctor as they passed on the threshold.

The doctor introduced himself as Peter Rachmann, ICU specialist. “Now, let’s see what’s happening here.  You gentlemen are relatives of Mr Watson?” as he spoke he walked towards the bed and picked up John’s charts.

“No,” Greg spoke up before the scathing remark he could read on Sherlock’s face could pass his lips. “My name’s Lestrade, Detective Inspector New Scotland Yard, and this is Sherlock Holmes.  He’s **Doctor** Watson’s friend.”

The correction went unnoticed; Rachmann busied himself with John, muttering as he checked the machine readings against the manual readings he took himself. Sherlock was almost beside himself with impatience, willing the man to give him some information. At last the man turned away from the bed.

“Well, the nurse was correct; all indications are that the change in your friend is due to the dissipation of the tranquiliser in his bloodstream.  I’ve re-set the alarms on the heart monitor – we need to watch now for his heart rate rising above the normal range, until we are sure he’s no longer affected by the original drug antagonist.” He smiled vaguely at the two men. “I think we can see light at the end of this particular tunnel.”

“What are the chances of permanent damage?”  Sherlock’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible.

“Can’t tell at this stage I’m afraid” the doctor was sympathetic, “until he wakes. Physically he should be fine, but how the drug has affected his mind……”

“Thank you Doctor.” Lestrade shook hands with the man and turned to the consulting detective. “Don’t say anything, Sherlock, just… it’s not his fault.  You’ll have to be patient.”

Sherlock huffed in frustration. “John shouldn’t be here, not like this….”

**_He could see him now, that person he was so desperate to reach. He had his back turned and he was talking…._** _“John shouldn’t be here….”_ **_Why?  Where should he be?  He struggled harder to reach the man standing in front of him.  Suddenly the man turned around and he was aware of the familiar look in his eyes, the half-smile, the curling dark hair. “I know you! You’re……”_**

“Sherlock!”     

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

John’s eyes flew open and he lay gasping for air like a diver who had been under the surface for too long.  He struggled against the restraints still holding him captive in the bed.  Greg reached over swiftly and pressed the call button beside the bed, summoning medical assistance.

“No, no, no, no!” the voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used in years, the body struggled against his restraints.

“John, easy now,” Greg’s hand moved from the call button to John’s chest in an attempt to reassure.

“No! I won’t do it! You can’t….” the shouting stopped as suddenly as it started. John’s eyes closed briefly, the long lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks, and he drew a deep breath.  When he opened them again a familiar face was peering worriedly down at him. “Hello.”

Sherlock smiled. “Welcome back, John.” Anything else he might have wanted to say was interrupted as both the nurse and Dr Rachmann came running into the room and hustled him away from the bedside.

“Ah, you’re awake!”

_“Well that was obvious!”_ John’s mind answered, but no sound passed his lips.

“How are we feeling?”

_“I’m feeling like crap!”_ the mind answered again _“Can’t speak for you though!”_ His eyes closed, and he lay there enduring the inane chatter, and the prodding and probing of the doctor’s examination, wishing they would just go away! Eventually they stopped pulling him around and he heard the sound of footsteps crossing the room. Cautiously he opened his eyes again – damn! The doctor with the crappy bedside manner was still there! And just to reinforce that opinion…

“There we go!”  _“Where?”_   “Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Thirsty!” John felt if he had to converse with this idiot it might as well be something productive.

“Ah!” Rachmann reached around to the jug and glass that stood on the bedside table. He poured a glass of water and held it to John’s lips – lips that remained stubbornly pressed shut. 

Finally Sherlock could stand it no longer. “For God’s sake!” in one fluid movement reached in to release the straps holding John down, slipping an arm under his friend’s shoulders and lifting him gently. Taking the glass from the doctor he offered John the drink he so obviously needed.

With a grateful smile he drank deeply, allowing Sherlock to hold the glass to his lips until it was empty. “Thanks!”

Rachmann fussed about for a while longer, asking questions that John barely thought about as he answered – yes he was comfortable thank you, no he didn’t really remember what happened, and yes, of course, if he needed anything he’d press the call button that the doctor placed on the bed near his hand – before advising the other men in the room not to overtire the patient and leaving them in peace.

In the silence that followed his departure John’s gaze flicked around the room, took in the straps that still lay across the bed, the bruises that circled his wrists, before coming to rest on Lestrade.  The older man looked uncomfortable. John looked away again, this time moving his head slightly to look at his flatmate. Sherlock just looked tired. John frowned. What had he missed?  Why was he in hospital anyway?

“What happened Sherlock?”

Silver-grey eyes looked down at him, trying to calculate how much he should tell him.

“Surely it can’t have been that bad?” John spoke again, breaking the strained silence. He looked at Lestrade again. “Greg? What’s going on?” his head ached he felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of elephants – he blinked as his mind supplied the picture that illustrated that thought (where the hell had that come from?) but it was gone in a heartbeat, to be replaced by a niggling thought that made itself at home in his mind. “Why are you here Greg? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t miss the look that the two men shared either, but before he could comment Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the bed and sat down.

“It’s not that we don’t want to tell you John, we will. It’s just that we can’t tell you everything.  We need you to try to remember…”

“Look mate,” Greg interrupted “It’s been a long night,” he looked at his watch, it was nearly mid-morning, “actually it’s been a long fifteen hours or more. You need to rest. Sherlock needs to rest. God help me, I need to rest! Let it be for now…”

“I can’t Greg.” John said quietly, “I’ve been restrained in a hospital bed,” he lifted his hands briefly, “’cuffed too at some point by the look of these bruises.  You don’t exactly look as if you’re here for a social call or to enquire after my health – am I under arrest?”

Greg swallowed hard. “You were. Not now though, John, we’re fairly certain….”

“Of course you’re innocent!”

“Not an idiot Sherlock.” John sighed “Scotland Yard wouldn’t arrest me without good cause. What did I do Greg?  You might as well tell me.”

Greg turned and walked to the window, rubbing his face with both hands. He stood for a moment looking out of the window, seeing nothing, before puffing out his breath and turning to face the man in the bed once more.  “We thought you’d tried to kill Sherlock.”

“What?” John’s eyes swivelled to his flatmate, scanning the thin frame. Seeing no obvious injury his gaze narrowed and he looked Sherlock in the eye. “Why would he think that?  I’ll ask you again, what happened?”

Instead of answering Sherlock looked at Lestrade. “You’re not planning on arresting him again then?” Greg’s answer was a tired shake of his head. “Then piss off and get that rest you’ve been complaining about.”

“Sherlock…”

“No John, he’s probably right, I should go. I’ll have reports to catch up with, including the one for this mess. Sherlock can fill you in with what detail he thinks fit.” He moved to put a hand on John’s arm “Sorry mate, I don’t know what else to say! It’s been …” he let the sentence tail off as he turned to leave, pausing at the door to advise Sherlock to try to get some rest before walking slowly away.

As the door closed behind him John turned his gaze back to his friend. “Where?”

“Where what?”

“Like I said Sherlock, I’m not an idiot. I can’t see any obvious signs of having hit you, or trying to strangle you, so I have to assume I tried to shoot you?” There was no response, so he continued “That they arrested me means either they caught me trying to kill you, or that I did in fact shoot you, so I’ll ask again – where?”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “You’re right, John. Let me tell you what I can….”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Anthea and Mycroft sat on opposite sides of the highly polished conference table, a mass of papers spread between them.  The information Mycroft had requested early that morning had arrived at last, and led to a frantic paper chase through departmental records and personnel files. Now the pieces of the jigsaw were finally coming together.

“Sir” Anthea held out a computer printout for Mycroft to see, a frown creasing her normally smooth brow.  Mycroft took the paper and read it carefully. Once or twice his eyes flickered to his normally unflappable assistant, noting the frown that was still sitting on her usually serene face.

“This is fairly conclusive.” he said finally, putting the paper on top of the pile in front of him.  “What else?”

“This is who authorised that particular piece of information to be accessed.” In her hand Anthea held a signed request, and a personnel profile. “I’m sorry Sir.”

Mycroft went very still, only the angry flare of his nostrils showed that he was even still breathing. After a very long moment he reached forward and picked up the telephone and punched in a number, speaking coldly and quietly to the person at the other end of the line. “I want a security lockdown. No one in, no one out of the building, and I want the head of security in my office in five minutes!”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Anderson had arrived at the office to find everyone had already heard about the evidence he had discovered.  With a self-satisfied smile he walked to his desk, hoping that his work would impress a certain dusky skinned detective sergeant – he was to be disappointed however, as Sally Donovan was furious that his discovery meant that she had to re-open the file on the case.

It wasn’t all bad however. Lestrade had recommended him for a commendation for his fieldwork, but better than that, the next time Mr Sherlock Snotty Holmes came into the Yard he would have to thank him!  That was worth the lost night’s sleep!

He was just settling in for a comfortable daydream about how he’d make the consulting detective squirm when Sally tapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon Superman – we’ve had a shout. Body washed up on the South Bank!”

Ah well, the dream can wait….

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Memory came back slowly, but gradually both Sherlock and John were able to piece together the events of that night.  Now they sat in the living room of 221b (Mycroft had arranged for the carpet to be thoroughly cleaned before the flatmates left the hospital), with Mycroft and Lestrade sitting at either end of the couch listening to them lay out the facts.

John’s rubbed at his shoulder absent-mindedly as he recalled the sting of the injection Katerinochkin had given him.  He frowned a little, there were still gaps in his memory that worried him, there was some important information he had wanted to give Sherlock when he returned to the flat that night.

Into the silence that had settled over the room Mycroft spoke. “John, I owe you an apology.”

John’s eyes widened dramatically. “Really?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, but this had to be done.  He may have enough belief in his own rightness to sink a battleship but underneath it all he was a fair man, and despite the comical face John was pulling right at this moment he knew he had to say this. “I accused you unfairly. I’m sorry. I allowed my concern for Sherlock to colour my judgement, I grasped at information I should have known to be flawed. That was wrong of me.” There! He’d said it! The silence seemed to stretch to infinity, then

“Okay!” John nodded “Fair enough.”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft wore matching frowns – this wasn’t the reaction either of them expected! John laughed.

“What? You’d prefer me to be angry? I didn’t know anything about it so why let it worry me?  In fact my last clear memory was of talking to Kallie…..” he stopped suddenly, staring off into the distance.

Sherlock leaned forward “What about Kallie?”

“Who’s Kallie?” Greg asked

“Homeless network” Sherlock said economically, not taking his eye from John’s face.

“Oh God!” John groaned suddenly, dropping his head into his hands “Kallie!”  He turned desperate eyes towards Sherlock. “That was the news I had for you! Shit!” He stood up and walked to the window. “Katerinochkin is building up a network of street dealers, using homeless people.  Some of the network had been approached but refused to get involved.  It was Kallie that picked up the connection, that realised what they are trying to do.” Looking at the Detective Inspector he asked quietly “Have you had many homeless deaths lately Greg?  Overdoses?”

Greg nodded “Yeah, a few.” 

John turned back to Sherlock. “Kallie thought they were using these kids, then paying them off in pure Angel Dust. They wouldn’t have stood a chance!”

Sherlock looked to his brother “Can you help?  If we can pick them up on the CCTV…”

Mycroft was already moving. “I’ll let you know what we find.” He said as he left the flat.

Greg stood too. “I’d better be going…um.. and…er, thanks Sherlock, about that thing with your brother….”

A slim hand was waved dismissively “I couldn’t let him have you sacked or demoted over this..” he paused, then grinned up at the man from the Yard “after all, who else would give me work?”

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

A short while later the flat was quiet and John, still suffering the after effects of the various drugs he had been given had succumbed to sleep in his favourite chair in front of the fire.

Sherlock had decided against starting any new experiments, he wanted to stay close as he knew that John was still having vivid dreams brought on by the hallucinogenic nature of the PCP, so he settled himself to sort the mountain of papers on his desk.  He was reaching for another pile of potential cases when his hand brushed against a particularly large stack of notes and they fell to the floor making a rather loud fluttering sound.

“Jesus!” John leapt out of his chair staring wildly around him. “What the hell….”

“John? Are you okay?” Sherlock stared at him in concern.

“Yeah,” a sheepish grin graced his face “Just dreaming again.”

“Care to share?” Having ascertained that they were generally harmless, Sherlock had found some of John’s drug induced dreams to be quite entertaining.

“Some woman had me imprisoned in her attic – and it was filled with bats!  That noise….” His eyes met Sherlocks, and they dissolved into giggles.

A while later, when they had calmed down, John busied himself making tea. Returning to the living room he handed Sherlock a cup and then seated himself opposite his flatmate.

Sherlock took a tentative sip of the hot drink. “I confess, I almost wish I hadn’t disabled Mycroft’s surveillance equipment – we wouldn’t have needed to prove your innocence. Just don’t tell him I said so!”

As John nodded his agreement, Sherlock’s phones pinged with an incoming text.

**‘Too late.  MH’**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I wish to thank everyone who read, commented and left Kudos on this story - it was the first one I wrote for Sherlock....however not the last!!
> 
> There is a sequel called Russian Nights, which I shall begin posting tomorrow night - I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Thank you!!


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